It was a mild March Sunday morning. I travelled by train to London and back out to Leatherhead in Surrey to give me a day to settle in before I’d start the course at Tyrwhitt House, the south-east part of Ex-Services Mental Welfare Society that has been assisting ex-service personnel since 1919.
It had now been sexed up and rebranded as ‘Combat Stress’, another casualty of the Blair Witch Project. I was hopeful that their help would lead to an improvement in my circumstances. I was physically and mentally drained. It was coming up to a year since my family had left. The summer and winter of 2013/14 had taken a ferocious toll on my wellbeing. I so wanted this to be the cure I needed, just to stop the pain and the burning in my head and body. Non-visible injuries may build in the mind but boy, do they manifest in the body. The effects of the chemicals being released by the brain and the substance addiction as well disrupt your whole system. How I had made it this far was a miracle in itself.
I presented my cert and was shown to my room. I would have the usual tests carried out by a nurse. Heart, blood pressure and so on, and then I’d need to fill out some questionnaires and get assessed on my present mindset. It was being run like the military and that was comforting, although the staff were all civilians. The hierarchy at the top table that we patients don’t see are ex-military officers, with some whose careers had been in mental health in the military. The usual shit: when they’d been in a position to do something about it, they hadn’t bothered. Now they’d migrate over to military charities and old allegiances, and the old boys’ network would come into play. I didn’t have this attitude when I walked through the gate. I was here for rehabilitation, no more, no less. The assessments went okay; they were just being cautious and ascertaining if you were prone to being violent or suicidal. I assured them not today anyway. I still had a sense of humour. You damn well need it at times like that. I had a scout around the place and met a few more inmates; it didn’t take long to assess what’s what and who’s who.
As with all institutions there were political, rival factions and so on: disinformation and some sick bastards. I didn’t want to get wrapped up in any shit. I chatted and had the craic with lads, usual exchanges. When they asked what regiment you were in, that normally changed the conversation. I was going to be with these lads in rehab, attending workshops, classes, group therapy and taking food together for six weeks. I told them 21 SAS and left it at that. I never get pulled into speaking about my military history, training or ops. What you read here is a basic description. I don’t big-time it. I don’t have to. Those who are arrogant think they are good; those who are assured know they are good. Plus I didn’t want this taking anything away from my recovery. I just wanted to be part of the programme and fit in and get on with getting better. Sleep was very poor, with the new environment and a lot on my mind, the latter being the understatement of the century. We all got our various cohorts/groups and weekly timetable, and found out which individual key workers, psychologist and psychiatrist had been allocated to us. I was a wreck, but I was hopeful.
I settled into the routine straight away. The familiarity of the military life and having the veterans under one roof was good. There was a real camaraderie among the lads, always is. My therapist would not be at work for the first full week of my programme. I wasn’t happy and it slowed me down, but I engaged with the other classes and workshops. In the second week I was introduced to my therapist and it was like talking to an ice cube with legs. Not too sure where they pick these people from, but I would have thought that people skills and communication skills, being able to get a patient to open up, would be a basic prerequisite for employment. I was hitting a brick wall here. I only wanted to build a rapport; I was in no place to discuss anything. I didn’t even trust her yet. It was like they were all reading from a script. The arrogance was astonishing too. I wasn’t completely closed-minded to rehabilitation. I thoroughly enjoyed the mindfulness and the craft workshops. I also found I had a knack with poetry. This was like a whole new avenue through which to express myself. In the classes we would read out poetry from literature given to us. The lady leading the class would always ask for our understanding of the poem and so on. I could read well between the lines. I had a canny intuition for seeing what the poem could mean at several levels.
However, I was becoming acutely aware of a two-tier system operating in the background. Those who dared to speak out or question any of the lessons given by the psychologists and therapists were marked. Not everyone attending was on the six-week course; many were older veterans who had been attending for years when it was still Ex-Services Mental Welfare Society over the door. They warned a lot of us about the high turnover of staff; good people leaving or being pushed out. It was obvious this place was being turned into a factory. I didn’t like what I saw, but I told myself that I was here to get my life back on track and with that I made the decision to ask for a change of therapist as the ice cube on legs showed no sign of even pursuing the thought that she was human, never mind conversing with another one. I had hit an impasse and I thought this was the sensible option. That request was ignored. On a Thursday during week three they said my key worker would have a meeting with the therapist to sort it out. What they were not prepared to do was have someone think for themselves. They only wanted injured veterans that would take to the programme. Out of each cohort about 20 to 25 per cent seemed to be doing okay. The rest of us, and we all were experiencing different levels of illness and treatment, didn’t like what we were being taught. They were trying to programme or brainwash us just so we looked good enough at interviews. If you didn’t agree or were not ready or whatever, then they had you marked as non-compliant.
What really upset me and many others was that we were being treated as stupid squaddies that could be treated like children, and those with university degrees and initials after their name knew better. When you put your hand up that you need help for non-visible injuries, you lose your right to self-defence; you may be ill but you don’t suffer from stupidity. Your word, even your character, can be called into question and these so-called medical professionals hold the keys to your freedom. That threat was exercised over many in that place. Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of decent staff doing their best, but they were not in control.
My attempt to get a new therapist went on for several more days and in the end there was a complete breakdown in communication with the therapist. I was summoned to a meeting between my psychologist, the treatment centre manager, my psychiatrist and a head nurse. I went in and spoke clearly and concisely. I had been asking for a change of therapist for nearly a week. They just wanted to break my will and get me to jump through hoops. I was threatened with the police by the head nurse. I only asked to see my medical records. I retorted, ‘You ring the police and I will telephone the Sun newspaper about this place.’ That silenced them in shock. The meeting was abandoned. I came out. I was on the verge of breaking down, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. I telephoned an old sergeant from 21 SAS. I told him the story and the way they were mistreating me. I said it’s immoral and illegal and violated countless medical ethics. He advised me not to sign any paperwork and not to budge; he would contact the regimental welfare officer for 21 SAS. Finally, I thought, some help from my regiment. I informed the staff I had spoken to my old regiment and I was awaiting a call back from the RWO (Regimental Welfare Officer). That put the shits up them. They knew now that their underhand tactics were going to be blown. One of the staff who had been in the first meeting decided to call another one. They informed me that it would be sorted out in the morning and to just rest.
Rest? I was so stressed and at the end of my tether. How the hell had it come to this? Trying to kick me out of treatment because I said it wasn’t working and I needed a change of therapist so I could open up and get on with getting better? It’s not rocket science. I got a phone call from my old sergeant that evening telling me to stay put and keep my head down. They would get to the bottom of it. It felt good to have some back-up after nearly four years on my own since the screw-up with my arm and after having asked for help then. The next morning I was informed there would be another meeting around midday. I said fine. I asked if I could continue the workshops; that was a negative. Midday came and another meeting. This time they brought in another consultant psychiatrist to take over my case. They wouldn’t swap a therapist, but when it suited them they swapped my psychiatrist because the other member of staff had felt shameful about the way I was being bullied and screwed over. I recorded the whole thing on my phone as evidence. They didn’t like it, but I know the real reason they wouldn’t show me my medical records; they would fill in bullshit after they got rid of me. That’s why I wanted the meeting to be recorded so I could contest it. Otherwise it would be these bastards’ word against a sick veteran. What chance did I have? They tried their best. I said I was waiting for the RWO to get back and whatever would be would be. The slimy bastards were trying to put words into my mouth. Half of them hadn’t the courage to look me in the eye. I looked straight at them:
I’ve seen too many good men blown to bits or shot to shit to roll over and play dead. If you think you’re going to break me and get me to sign off that I wasn’t engaging in treatment, think again. I swear before God and anyone else I will not be beaten or broken. I will get to the bottom of what’s going on here and the way you are treating veterans.
Much pain has passed since that day and that statement but, my friends, I’m damn well back in the ring. To those who carried out that act of treachery and betrayal towards me and the other veterans and who I witnessed making names for yourselves and money off the backs of our suffering: screw you and thank you. It was my damnation into a burning layer of hell for nearly two years after that. Yet when I said I’d make it back, I meant it. I really meant it.
Okay, back to the shit-storm meeting again. So that one was abandoned. I spoke with the RWO and he said to remain there and he would see what was going on. I informed them I had spoken to him and I was awaiting his move. They asked me to sign a consent form so they could speak to the RWO about me directly. The head nurse was a tall, skinny string of piss with no backbone. Every ounce of me wanted to knock the bastard out, but I wanted treatment more than anything else. I played it cool. He put a blank A4 piece of paper in front of me. I responded: ‘You’re telling me, an organisation like Combat Stress that talks and communicates with many agencies about patients, that you don’t have a data-protection form or a blank consent form template?’ Goddam idiot just walked away. The RWO telephoned. I gave him a heads-up and told him what had just happened and that I had not given permission to anyone to discuss my case. I wanted this made as official as possible. I wanted this torture to be recorded and dealt with through the proper procedures. The string-of-piss nurse came out again. I said no and went to my room.
It was evening time by now and I was a nervous wreck but I didn’t give it away. There was a knock on the door at about 7.00 pm and the Treatment Centre Manager was standing there with a letter; she smirked and said good evening. I didn’t like her smirk; I knew something had put the ball in their court. I read the letter that said they would be discharging me at 10.00 am and I would sign my release form and so on, be discharged and look at coming back for a check-up. You get discharged and then they cover their arses by giving you a follow-up appointment. They knew full well nobody was going to come back after being treated like that. Then it would go on record that the patient didn’t engage in treatment. I telephoned the RWO. No answer. He was supposed to call back that evening. I left a voicemail. Later, it rang out and I left another voicemail. A while later I tried again; this time it was switched off. They had contacted him without my express permission and that was that. They lied and convinced my regiment that the best thing for this sick veteran would be to stop his treatment, and the regiment, which I had twice asked for assistance, did not even bother to answer the phone. I couldn’t believe it. Sodding all on my own again, the whole system against me. No wonder that bitch at the door had a smirk on her face. I sat on the bed and cried.
How could it have come to this? I had lost my career, my family, my sanity; lost all that I hold dear to me. I wanted to get better and to try to get my life back on track. Now there was nothing but the darkness of the night. The thought of going into the office again and having those bastards sit there and hand me a paper to sign myself out… no bloody chance, I thought. I may be screwed but I ain’t dead and they ain’t going to beat me or laugh and wave me off as if it’s a game to them. I packed my kit. The night staff did their evening round at 9.00 pm. I was in my room. They couldn’t see the bag or anything else. I said hi and told them I was chilling in bed. Once the coast was clear, I got out my bag and hid it under a bush in the gardens. I made my way back into the television area to see some other lads. I didn’t say what was going on. I just wanted some camaraderie before I left into the darkness. The night staff had seen me so I knew no one would check until morning. With that I went to my room, checked for the all-clear, sneaked out the window through the gardens and put my hold-all over my shoulder. It was dark and cold; it was the end of March 2014. I kept low, sneaking through the woods on the grounds. I scaled the fence and headed into the woodland surrounding Leatherhead in Surrey.
I marched a solemn march. Teeth gritted, but with the stride of a man who wouldn’t give in. I handrailed the road until I could make out the town’s lights. I edged down the road, avoiding cars, until I made it to the train station. My head was covered and my eyeballs were to the floor. I changed my top and so on before going in front of the CCTV and the station. I wanted to be missing so it would be official at Combat Stress, and then it would come to light what had happened to me and I thought it may stop it happening week in, week out. I made my way to Central London and on out to Hertfordshire.
I turned up at my front door and I remembered the thought I’d had: that I would be in a better place on my return. I dropped the bags and went straight to the off-licence. I got a supply to last a while. I had no intention of leaving the house. I had no idea what had happened over the last forty-eight hours, but I felt like my liberty was at stake here. Those bastards could get me sectioned just for the hell of it. I wasn’t going to give anyone any excuse. Plus, I wanted me missing for it to be official. No sleep that night. Around 10.00 am I got a call. I didn’t answer; I knew it was Combat Stress. I had the number saved on the phone. They didn’t even leave a voicemail. I texted one of the lads still inside and asked if they had been looking for me. He said no, they were keeping it quiet and a few lads were asking questions and not happy about what had happened but the staff were saying sod all.
Later that morning the phone rang again and no answer. The staff left no voicemail. I contacted my estranged wife and told her what had happened and not to worry, that I was okay. I wasn’t happy, but I was okay. It must have been surreal for her to hear what had happened, but I assured her I didn’t do anything wrong and I would keep her up to speed over the next few days as I would call to speak to the kids. She was listed as my next of kin. They never contacted her either. So it was well over eighteen hours since they had seen me, but no contact with the next of kin. They rang my number but again, left no voicemail. They knew I had attempted suicide before and that I wasn’t happy about what had happened. I hadn’t been suicidal since that image of my two children had saved my life; I’d had thoughts, but that was all. I wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Eventually at about 5.00 pm there was a knock at the door. I opened the window upstairs to check who it was; it was a local police officer. He said they had received a phone call from Combat Stress and that I wasn’t happy about my discharge. I didn’t make a fuss and said I was okay. He could see the pain in my eyes and he didn’t pursue it. He asked if I was okay; I said I was. I knew what he meant. They had reported the attempted suicide and that I was a vulnerable veteran. He was assured of my safety and that was that. I thought shit; now I’m on the radar everywhere. One little side step and they have the ammunition. I dare not leave the house for a while, especially during daylight. The darkness was now my only companion. Quite literally the darkness of the night and the darkness within my soul and mind. What have they done to me, I thought. The Taliban didn’t do half as much damage as the very institution and agencies that are supposed to be there for us. How I would like to bring to light those at Tyrwhitt House who had tried so miserably to break my spirit, from the treatment centre’s management to the psychologists, psychiatrists and head nurses.
They should bow their heads in shame. To be honest, I don’t know what was more traumatic, being blown up or being exploited, bullied and harassed. When your mind is so fragile and you’ve lost so much, to have so-called health professionals who are supposedly employed to help you write up sodding notes on my medical records to sully my good name was an ordeal too far. After being awarded for my service, I was subjected to threats by cowards. Yet I would also like to thank them for what they did to me. That drove me on to get better; their methods weren’t the most orthodox, but they worked in the long run.
The next several months were one long battle in hell. Day was night; night was day. I had completely fallen into alcohol and drug addiction. Anything to stay awake at night. It was a vicious spiral in only one direction, downwards. I couldn’t leave the house most of the time; only on occasions. Everything had to be delivered; even torment comes straight to your door. The odd time I would be so pissed off at being a prisoner in my own house I would be high as a kite and go out. Those excursions ended up in fights or in a police cell. Fair play, the Old Bill didn’t give me a hard time. I had spoken to a civilian while at Combat Stress; he worked alongside the police. He informed me that blokes like us have to be careful; even if we used self-defence against a few attackers we can get done for it. He read out the code this falls under with the police, so they know they’re dealing with a trained killer before they come running onto the scene. That kept me good and paranoid half the time. I tried not to give anyone an excuse to take my liberty, but the reality was that my illness was denying me my liberty.
Being isolated for weeks and weeks on end before I could see my kids was slowly killing me and my spirit. After a visit from the kids it was even worse. I just went into oblivion; it was the only way I knew how to cope. Christmas 2014 was a painful, lonely experience. The only thing I liked about that time of year was that it was dark early, and when it was the daytime the light was crisp and bright. I could get out more during the darkness but that was a double-edged sword. The nighttime was longer and my head would rage or fear in equal measure. It was early into the New Year. Well, I wasn’t paying any bills now. After the systemic abuses with the financial crisis, I thought fuck you, it’s your mess, I’m not paying to get you bankers out of it; plus I was broke. Inevitably the letter from the mortgage company arrived. Repossession proceedings were going to be starting soon. I cared, but at the same time I didn’t. Losing the house would be the final nail, I thought. All would be lost. My mind and body were running on thought alone. I barely ate and I was very ill and vulnerable. The paranoia was frightening. I really didn’t know what was in my mind and what was real.
I contacted the Royal British Legion for assistance with the house. I knew I was too fragile to fight this alone. The debt advisor, a Welsh lady called Lyndsey, was brilliant, although we were only delaying the inevitable. I was hoping that my Armed Forces Compensation Scheme (AFCS) money would be paid within the next weeks to months. I didn’t know the amount, but I was certain it would clear the arrears and buy time to either sell or get better treatment. I had started to see a private medical professional to begin dealing with my illness. I was nowhere near ready to start talking though; I was still traumatized from my treatment at Combat Stress. I contacted the Veterans Agency about an update on my claim. I was told it was on hold due to issues arising from the injury to my arm and that it was being revisited to see if the amount was correct or whether it was to be increased. So the PTSD was on hold while a separate claim from my 2010 injury was still being sorted. The AFCS is a slow, miserable torment that screws injured men left, right and centre. As bad as it is, it’s worse for war veterans before 2005. They get even goddam less. It really is shameful the way we are treated and swept under the carpet. The military covenant is a worthless piece of propaganda for the dispatch box.
There should really be a full and independent judicial inquiry into the treatment of veterans and injured veterans in this country. Things have not changed much since the Spanish Armada in 1588 when injured men from the battle came home. It was only charity and some ships’ captains that paid compensation or helped in some way. Even then it was nowhere near what was needed. So do your own homework. Every monumental war and battle that has been celebrated over the last 500 years paints the same story. There is no bullshit, it’s just hidden from view; it doesn’t go down well for those basking in the glory to retreat on the real cost or the abhorrent treatment of those who sacrificed so much. Anyway, now you know.
Getting back to where I was at, the ruthlessness with any illness of the mind is that it is a parasitic illness. It manifests in every part of your life. I was coupled to the drug and alcohol addiction that stemmed from the illness of the mind. Self-medicating on drink and drugs is one of the biggest issues faced by veterans and hinders treatment as it makes non-visible injury far harder to detect, with many seen as just having drink or drug problems. I was chained to a never-ending groundhog day over and over again. I tried to pull myself out of it, to make steps in the right direction, but I’d fall down again or descend even further into a hell of despair that I couldn’t escape, even though I had made countless efforts. I was all alone, although I now know I was in people’s prayers and thoughts. The Royal British Legion were there, my family tried to assist in any way they could from Ireland, my former wife did what she could, but the nearest person in my close circle was 200 miles away. My illness had isolated me in a cell that was my home. Now that was about to be ripped away as well. That was knocking lumps out of my fragile mind.
By March 2015 I had been diagnosed with psychosis from a breakdown from the mistreatment the year previous and all the changes in my circumstances had taken their toll. I was on very strong medication. I tried to put in some sort of stable regime for medicating myself but after a while it started to become abundantly clear that I was just sitting on the sofa staring into space dribbling. The television was on but I couldn’t concentrate on the movement and flickering; my eyes were sore from the hypervigilance and little to no sleep and so on. It felt as if my soul was being consumed in front of me. To make matters worse, the repossession hearings came and went. Looking back it was a godsend that I was given a few adjournments while I waited for the AFCS to ascertain exactly what I was going to be paid. I was basically pissing in the wind when the final hearing arrived and I got the news that I had a few weeks to have something in concrete by June, otherwise eviction proceedings would commence. The magistrates and the mortgage company were both as lenient as they could be. I was grateful for that. I can’t thank the Royal British Legion enough for helping me out. I was glad it was all over now. My head and heart were not in it.
In a way I was glad the house was gone; it was killing me inside. I felt like a prisoner. I donated much of my belongings to charity; I had no place to put them. Then I made the decision to move north to Yorkshire to be closer to my kids. Only seeing them every six to eight weeks was not helping me or my kids. I thought to myself, the only thing I have is my kids. Since my home was now gone, what had I left to lose, eh? I also foolishly thought that a lot of my problems would dissipate if I moved somewhere else or new, but all the issues were inside me. So no matter where you go, unless you deal with what’s going on inside you, the same problems just reappear. You may change things on the outside, but until you change what’s happening on the inside it’s the same old story again and again. The definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results every time. Jesus, this hindsight is great value for money, but when you’re busy in the middle of the storm it ain’t so pretty.
I moved north, staying with family until I found a place of my own. I knew I had made the right decision. My little guardian angels were in great form and just getting to see them more started to pick me up. I tried to sort out the substance abuse addiction by having a few pints. That theory sank many a man. I didn’t know anyone about; my mind was still very ill. It didn’t take too long to find somewhere to live and start isolating myself and feeling my illness again. As the winter drew in, the nights closed in too and I realized the darkness in my mind hadn’t disappeared. It had lulled me into a false sense of security. The paranoia was severe by this stage. I made a few attempts to try to get help and first start working at detoxing. Every time it would get worse. In October I had been through a period where things were starting to work. After a few days I found a twelve-step meeting. I decided I needed some help to keep this going. I went to a meeting at 7.30 in the morning. Here were people who had lost everything, had never had anything to lose or were just normal and had been to the pits of hell and back. They had a glow about them though. My mind still had its grip on me and it took me further into hell.
The next six months were the worst in matters of the mind. I had lost all else but this was a new hell. Most mornings, after doing the night-watchman until dawn, consisted of being knocked out from exhaustion. Over and over the same shit, but the intensity was now of tectonic proportions. I would spend half the day in a fantasy that I would get better, beat the drugs and alcohol and start to get better. Put weight on. Start looking after myself. Then, as the day progressed, the paranoia would unfold. I would literally spend hours in the crouched position either staring at the door or in the direction of the tiniest creak in the house or sound outside. If somebody walked past the house the sound of their footsteps was like a Roman legion going into battle. I would barely breathe so as not to give away my position. There wasn’t a sinner around, not even a mouse. My adrenaline and heart rate were at maximum for a minimum of eight hours every day.
Christmas came and went. All alone again, though I did manage to see the kids when I was able to get it together enough to see them. In the New Year it was the same shit, but occasionally I was managing the odd day here and maybe two days there without the substance abuse. I kept trying every day. I was caught in a fantasy about sorting my life out, followed by the paranoia and guard duty at night. Then a few circumstances presented themselves: a break in the darkness, literally. There was a spell of great weather for springtime, the clocks went forward and suddenly the night shift shortened and there was light. Most mornings I would beg for help in ending this nightmare. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I’d hope for peace and freedom. Absolutely shattered, I asked for help. I don’t know who I was talking to but on 1 April 2016 I did the exact same routine and asked, help me, help me. I can’t do it any more. I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m beaten. I can’t go on any more like this. Someone please sodding help me. I fell into a deep sleep. I woke that evening. Something got me into the shower and I managed to eat some food. I was weak but I kept going. I made my way to a twelve-step meeting. I was shaking and rattling. I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t speak and couldn’t look anyone in the eye, but something underneath had changed.